


Fixer-Upper

by lionheart (goodmorningvietnam666)



Series: Short (Maybe Long) Borderlands Fics [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Banter, F/M, First Kiss, Foreshadowing, I write cute things because I love to, Missing Scene, Nicknames, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 07:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16113629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorningvietnam666/pseuds/lionheart
Summary: "Do... Do you know anything about caravans?"Fiona enjoys trying to figure Rhys out almost more than she enjoys insulting him. Conversations are had, secrets are revealed, and for once? They actually get along.





	Fixer-Upper

**Author's Note:**

> There is one (1) person who encouraged me and they know who they are. The rest is entirely by my own motivation. 
> 
> You guys know what I love more than kudos? Feedback.

The sun bears down on the sand beneath her knees, sears through the layers of clothing she’d been hoping would protect her, and she scowls. With chipped and oil covered nails, she tweaks at wires, turns bolts, grinds her teeth each time it seems to get her nowhere. In what is barely there heat for a Pandoran morning, she can’t help but think her attempts to fix the caravan are going horribly wrong. When, frustrated, Fiona moves to back out from under the caravan, and smacks her head against the edge, she _knows_ it’s going horribly wrong.

Her foot stamps to the ground in a moment of silent frustration, and she huffs, blows a stray lock of hair out from in front of her eyes. She wraps her hand around the door of the caravan, and wrenches it open so hard she almost topples over. With a sigh, a moment to close her eyes and just breathe, she steps into the already warm interior, and puts her hands on her hips, casts her gaze around at something that might help her. 

They’ve been stuck on the side of the road for a few days now, and each have been taking guard shifts, food runs, water expeditions, and they’re exhausted. Fiona’s been attempting to fix the caravan, stubborn that she can do it, for a few hours each morning or evening, depending on the guard shift. Her gaze falls on each of her companions, and pauses on their half robot stooge, his neck tilted back on their tiny couch, long legs jumbled into what looks like an uncomfortable mess of ankles and knees. Fiona frowns: she could ask Rhys for help. Maybe. He’s got half a machine in him, seems to know what he’s doing when it comes to technology and machinery so maybe… 

Maybe…

When she nudges at him, he jerks awake, a look of something midway between fear in confusion in those mismatched eyes, and looks to her, confused. Fiona has never really been shy: she practically grew up loud and demanding, learnt that it was a good way to get what you wanted. 

It’s a surprise to her when she fiddles with a chipped and broken nail, stumbles over exactly what she wants to ask, even though she knows it so well. “Do… Do you know anything about caravans?”

Rhys blinks at her, and it seems to take a moment for him to understand why she’s asking, before his ridiculous boots touch the floor, and he stands, shrugs, “I could try?”

She shrugs, gives a half smile, “No worse than what I’ve been doin’. C’mon Legs.”

If he hates the nickname, he hasn’t said it yet: Glasses and Legs had been an addition to her life, one that she had reluctantly accepted, and now… almost trusted. The first thing she’d noticed about the pair had quickly become witty monikers, and Rhys hadn’t really bothered to complain about it yet. 

Fiona fully expects the corporate stooge to complain about the dirt and sand, but he drops down and pushes himself belly up under the caravan without a word. She can see, past the glaring light of the sun, the telltale blue glow of the light in his arm, and she almost kicks herself: she hadn’t thought of a light. “Is it bad?”

“Uh… no? The wiring is… it’s shot, and there is just… so much down here that- do you have a toolkit?” He’s soft spoken, this morning, and she likes him better this way, without the bluster and bullshit, the uppity nature and obnoxious arrogance. He seems… real, when he’s like this, when he’s made of soft edges rather than those that threaten to cut and bleed you out. 

“Sure,” with her boot, she slides the kit she’d been using under the caravan next to Rhys, and folds her arms, leans against their vehicle and tips her hat down to ward off the sun. “You ever done this before? I don’t really want the caravan to explode.”

“Oh? No it uh, it won’t explode.” he doesn’t really answer her question, and she wonders if maybe she should press, but chooses to stay quiet. 

A few minutes pass, and it’s mostly quiet, the odd clack of metal on metal, a soft hum from her companion. 

“Did you ask me if I’d done this before?”

She’s shaken free of her aimless staring, and doesn’t know why she checks herself, makes sure it appears that she hadn’t been lost in thought. “I uh, yeah.”

“I have.”

Why? Why is it so difficult to keep conversation with him? He never shuts up, Fiona knows she could set him off with one wry comment, a pointless challenge, so why is _this_ so difficult? “Y-Yeah?”

“Mhm, a couple times, more than just caravan’s too. I’ve always been good with machines.”

Fiona huffs, smiles softly at the admission, apparently patience with Rhys was the right move, evidently he responded to slow and simple better than fast and complex. Not to say he’s stupid, not by a long shot, but there’s something that’s withdrawn about him, something that seems to become more so the closer they get to the next Gortys piece, and she wants so badly to ask, but they just… don’t know each other that well. “Where does a guy like you learn to do work like this?”

“Home.” Rhys, incredibly, doesn’t ride to the bait, hums softly at something she can’t see, “Eden-5, on… newer vehicles, but the principle is the same. When I lo- got my arm installed, it sort of became something I had to know well: machines all tend to follow the same rules. Easier than people, at any rate.”

“I dunno, people can be pretty universal too.” Of course he’s from one of the Eden’s: he’s too soft for a life like theirs, seems untouched by the danger and desperation of Pandora. She’s suspicious at the way he’d cut himself off, makes note to ask, at some point, about the arm, to get the truth. Rhys gives information easily, but whether it adds up to what she sees and observes is so unclear: he seems to say one thing and think another, act a certain way, and damn the decision once it’s done. 

He’s complex despite his simplicity, and she wants to figure out why.

“Sure, Fiona. How exactly?” it’s not as though he doesn’t believe her, the tone he uses is pondering rather than condescending, so she lets the brief need to defend herself pass. 

“Most react the same way to certain emotions, have the same buttons to push… things like that,” she shrugs, presses closer to the caravan to better avoid the sun. “They’re emotional… it sort of makes them exactly the same.”

Rhy huffs, “If I liked debating human nature, I’d argue your point. But I actually hate psychology so… Cool, you’re probably right, anyway.”

“You hate psychology?” Fiona grins despite her efforts to keep it down, and finds she doesn’t mind the flow of conversation, isn’t thinking of a next move so much as she’s trying to keep Rhys talking. She’s glad he can’t see her face. “Isn’t part of your whole… thing, knowing how to charm people?”

“Despise it entirely.” Rhys chuckles, “And it’s more flailing awkwardly until they feel sorry for me.”

She crouches down, gets to her knees and peers beneath the caravan, catches that mismatched gaze, watches his ECHOeye glow in the shadows, “Nah, I don’t think that’s true.”

“You’re right: it’s not.” there’s a small smile in the upturn of his eyes, but she doesn’t have time to decipher it before his gaze is back on the underside of the caravan, “I am really good at my job. I used to practice at bars, try to get people to belief big lies, see if they’d fall for my bullshit.”

“And?”

“Hyperion’s full of idiots. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Fiona stifles a laugh, watches Rhys as he works, uncaring of the minute ache in her hips from the crouching, shifts to her knees instead. There’s a singular focus to Rhys’ work ethic, and he flinches when he notices she’s still watching, patient. 

“Give the engine a try, would you?”

She nods, rises to her feet, and steps into the caravan again, smiles at the knowledge that Sasha and Glasses are still fast asleep, likely exhausted from ducking Rakks from the lake and back. She turns the key, hears the engine shudder, and bites her lip when it seems to go on too long, and then, it catches. With a soft whoop of joy, she steps back outside, notices Rhys has already wriggled out from beneath the caravan, is packing the tools away. “You’re a miracle.”

He laughs, and waves her off, runs a hand through his hair, rubs at the back of his neck. He seems about to say something to her, and then he’s staring off into the middle distance. It’s for a long moment, one that she can’t seem to count, and then he flinches: he’s been doing that a lot, lately. “Anyway, uh, we should move on? Long journey, and all that.”

Fiona frowns as he steps past her, toolkit in hand, but decides that after what she counts as an almost normal conversation, she won’t push her luck with the corporate stooge.

/~/

It’s late, the next time she gets Rhys alone, the next time everyone else is too tired to stay awake, and she’s too full of questions and plans to even try sleeping. He’s awake too, closing and opening his right hand, scowling when the joints seem to catch and protest the movement. Fiona knows he’s trying to be quiet, but the soft swearing and quiet noises of frustration tell her all she needs to know. She turns, leans on the back of the driver’s seat, and watches him fro just a moment. 

In the low, blue hued light of the tundra, his ECHOeye is an electric colour, incredibly vibrant and striking. The sharper angles of his face are obvious, clear to the attentive eye, and she smirks, “Y’alright, Legs?”

Rhys flinches, and the tiny instrument he’d been using to poke at the joints of his hand clatters to the table. He flicks his gaze up to hers, and there’s definite fear there, but it fades into guilt, “I didn’t… I woke you, didn’t I?”

She shakes her head, and approaches, sits herself down next to him, half an arm’s distance apart, “I can’t sleep. So no. What’re you doing?”

“I’m uh,” he chuckles, runs a hand through his hair, “I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with my arm: it’s been getting stuck, but I didn’t really bring the kit to repair it.”

Fiona taps her nose, and slides out of the booth, rifles through the cupboards of the caravan as quietly as she can, and pulls free a small box, Hyperion yellow and black decorating the outside. With a triumphant smile, she places it gently on the table, and Rhys’ eyes just light up. “We nicked it a while back but it sold for nothing so, we figured eventually we’d try to use it to pick locks, or something.”

He laughs softly, gently opens the small container, lifts up the panel on the underside of his right arm. She sits back down, intrigued, looks once to him, and leans in to examine further when he doesn’t protest. Within the arm is a series of circuits and wires, small mechanisms that she supposes act like muscle and bone. It looks complicated, but like a finely crafted weapon, there’s something beautiful about it. 

A silence settles between them, and as interested in the way that Rhys works on the intricate innards of his arm as Fiona is, she doesn’t mind. It’s so strange that she finds silence with Rhys so comforting, so easy to keep. She huffs a laugh when his index finger twitches at the touch of a wire, wonders how long it took to learn what moved which part. “When did you get the arm?”

Rhys looks to her for a long moment, up and around the small caravan, and huffs a soft laugh, “Before I joined Hyperion, I bought this…”

Fiona feels the furrow in her brow, “And before that?”

“I’d been using a strung up endoskeleton: spare parts and bad wiring, enough that it worked.” he shrugs, “It was no big deal.”

It doesn’t sound at all like the sort of arm a kid who lived on Eden-5 would make do with. She imagines every person she’s met from the Eden’s and most of them are arrogant and so up themselves it makes her sick to her stomach. Rhys… isn’t quite like that, doesn’t regard the memory with disdain. “Then how’d you lose it in the first place?”

He hums softly, and seems pleased that she’s caught him in a lie, rather than offended like she expects. After weeks of travelling, she still hasn’t figured out exactly why Rhys is… the way he is. “I fell into a Skag pit, and an Alpha ripped my arm off. I was eight, it was a miracle I survived, really.”

The dots connect, just slowly. Fiona chews at her bottom lip, and finds it hard to grasp for a second, because what he’s saying is so opposite to what she’s believed. “You’re Pandoran?”

Rhys hesitates, she sees it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his fingers go tight around the tool he’s using, before they relax. “Yep. Born and raised.”

“Huh,” she sits back, takes a look at his profile, and tries to imagine what he’d looked like as a scrappy kid from her home planet. It’s an impossible task. “Family still here?”

“Uh, yeah. Still out in the outer Badlands.” He seems to be nervous, but warming to the idea of telling her about himself, and Fiona counts it as a victory, “Farmers, a family of 6 including me.”

“Three siblings?” she can’t resist a smile, “Younger?”

“Two older, one younger.” he smiles down at his arm, a fondness in his gaze that doesn’t belong to anything in the room, “Pretty sure they think I’m never coming back.”

“Were you planning to?” from what she understands of the man beside her, he’s set to try and make himself King of Hyperion, to give leading a number of sociopathic idiots to some… undefined conquest. She wonders for a moment if his hand would be steady, or if he would leap off the deep end just like the last CEO who’d lorded over Helios.

“I really don’t know. I never thought about it: I just knew I wanted… more.” Rhys huffs another laugh, “I always wanted to run a business and, once I’d managed to get into a fancy school on Eden-5, I knew that I wanted to run the business. Maybe it’s selfish, but I never really considered my family in the plan.”

Fiona knows she shouldn’t feel a twinge of sympathy: Sasha was likely paranoid about these two Hyperion stooges for a reason. But… he looks so sad in that moment, so concerned at his own actions that she thinks maybe he’s not bad at all, just working for the wrong people. This at least, she can sympathise with. 

“Ah, you big softie.” she nudges his middle with an elbow, smirks, “You miss them, you wouldn’t have that kicked puppy look if you didn’t.”

“Kicked puppy?” Rhys frowns further, and she stifles a laugh in the quiet of the caravan, remembers others are sleeping, “Really?”

“Mhm, it’s a good routine, you should use it sometime.” she has to cover her mouth to smother laughter when he shoves her back, gently, far from irritated.

“Fiona?”

“Mmm?”

“Thank you,” he replaces the plate on his arm, and it fits back in place as though it was never gone, “For listening. I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

She takes a gamble, and leans into him: the metal arm is hard, but not cool, to the touch; it’s odd to expect the softness of flesh and not get it. “I’m surprised you told me, but you’re welcome, Legs.”

“Okay” A laugh tails the word, and it’s so soft, light and airy, that it brings a smile to her own face, “Okay I have to know why you call me that. It’s driving me crazy.”

Fiona ducks her head, hopes that her hair hides the dusting of pink that decorates her cheek as she bites her lip. She glances up at Rhy, at the openness that shines in those mismatched eyes, the soft acceptance of whatever it is she has to say. “I uh… when I first saw you, I thought you had nice legs?”

“O-Oh? You did? Uh… thanks?” she knows blushing when she sees it, and the tinge of heat to Rhys’ cheeks is definitely that. She’s relieved it’s not just her feeling the embarrassment.

“They’re long.” she supplies helplessly, and screws up her nose when Rhys snorts out a laugh, covers his own mouth to keep quiet. 

“They’re long!” he squeaks, and Fiona whacks him as hard as she dares, tries to make sure it doesn’t wake anyone up. 

“Well they are! Take the compliment you dick.” she can’t help a smile, rubs his back when the laughter fades to a silent, half concealed grin.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry it’s just… they’re long.” he stifles another laugh, and stretches out his left leg as if to prove the point to himself. 

She folds her arms, and does her best not to sulk, or let her gaze wander from the blank space on the wall opposite. 

“Should I start calling you Nose?”

“You- what?” she turns to Rhys, and feels her brow furrow at his smile, the calm at what has been an admission of.. Something. She refuses to name it just yet. 

“You like me legs, I like your nose.” To emphasise the point, a metal finger taps the end of her nose as he smiles, soft, and maybe a little frightened at the confession, “It’s cute.”

“My nose is cute?” she smiles, watches the way Rhys squirms at the question, and shakes her head, “Don’t call me Nose, Legs.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” he grins, and she’s not sure which of them leans in first, but she definitely kisses him first. 

It’s soft, hesitant, but not unwelcome: Fiona doesn’t expect his lips to be so soft, and is almost sad that he pulls away so quickly. They’re both quiet for what feels like an hour, Rhys drums fingers on his own thigh, opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it. 

“You should sleep,” she suggests, grins before she kisses his cheek, hears him stammer a half hearted protest. “We both should.”

Alright, she thinks, so he’s not a complete douche, and there’s definitely an odd sort of charm to him, a weird charisma that is entirely unconventional and strange.


End file.
